Dancing Death

by Christopher Bush

  “Look out there!” said Franklin. “Snow coming down in clouds. And it looks like keeping on.”

  Braishe had a look through the window, over towards the northeast. “I’ll push off as soon as I’ve seen Pollock. . . . Oh, Pollock! Who locked up last night?”

  “Charles took the front door, sir. I went round the house.”

  “And who unlocked this morning?”

  “Charles, sir.”

  “I see. . . . Everything all right, Charles?”

  “Yes, sir. Everything, sir.” But he looked across to Travers.

  Travers took the cue and told just what had happened during the small hours, but the inquiry that followed produced nothing. When the servants had gone Braishe gave his views.

  “There was that electric light last night,” he said. “That was pretty silly. Do you know I thought at first some idiot was playing a joke, only it happened long after they’d gone. Probably due to the same chap.”

  “The door was open, you know,” Franklin reminded him. “Anybody with sufficient nerve could have slipped in.”

  Braishe nodded. Then, “What about leaving Franklin to feed alone? Crashaw might like a smoke.”

  “The others coming down?” asked Franklin. “It’s best part of nine.”

  “Probably come in driblets. Aunt Celia’ll hang on a bit . . . and the girls, probably. Tommy ought to be down.”

  “The unrising generation!” remarked Travers. Crashaw caught his eye and smiled.

  Then something happened. As Travers opened the door and drew back to wave the others through there was a sudden shriek from somewhere upstairs. A second’s silence as the four of them listened . . . then a second shriek. Then a perfectly uncanny one! Braishe and Travers bolted for the stairs. Franklin screwed up his napkin and followed with his mouth full. Crashaw stood perplexed by the door.

  On the first landing, where the main staircase branched off left and right to two narrower stairways, Braishe pulled up short. As Travers halted behind him the first thing he saw was George Paradine’s head come round his door. Then he saw the body of a woman, and nothing else for a second while Franklin moved quickly in front of him. Braishe’s voice came nervously.

  “What is it? Is she all right?”

  “Just a faint,” said Franklin. Travers, craning round, knew the woman for Ransome, Mirabel Quest’s maid.

  Franklin looked from her to the other two. “What’s in there?” He took the lead in the short corridor, to where the bedroom door stood open. But the room was apparently empty. Then, just visible beneath the bed, he caught sight of a pair of shoes—those silver shoes with paste buckles which Cutie Sally had twirled so dexterously a few hours before. With a wave of his hand he motioned the others back, then knelt by the side of the bed and pulled up the valance. Underneath lay the body of Mirabel Quest, still in the jazz costume; the monstrous feather headdress all awry and just discernible in the uncertain light of the closed room.

  He struck a match. On the bodice was a red stain; in the centre of the stain the brass handle of what looked like a dagger.

  He slipped back to the corridor. “We’d better keep out of there. One of you go and fetch Mr. Paradine!”

  CHAPTER V

  THE MAN WHO WENT MAD

  FRANKLIN stood just inside the room while Paradine was making his examination. The curtains had been drawn, but the snow from the blizzard which was now raging outside filmed the windows and gave the bedroom an ill lit, cheerless look.

  Just behind in the corridor, Travers was whispering to Braishe. “I didn’t mention it before, but Franklin’s the head of our detective bureau. Take my advice and give him a free hand.”

  “I thought you said he was in the secret service!”

  “So he was—during the war. You see, we guessed people mightn’t be any too keen on—er—what one usually thinks a detective is.”

  It might have been Travers’s imagination, but somehow Braishe didn’t seem any too pleased with the disclosure. Then Mrs. Cairns, the housekeeper, coughed just behind them.

  “Ransome is better, sir. Just a faint, it was.”

  “Thank you,” said Braishe. “Mr. Paradine’ll have a look at her as soon as he’s finished here. Oh, and Mrs. Cairns—don’t let the maids start panicking. Keep them going just as usual.”

  Inside the room George Paradine backed out carefully from under the bed. In spite of the pajamas and dressing gown, there was nothing humorous about him at the moment. A certain dignity, new to Franklin’s experience of him, and an absolute absence of excitement, gave him an authority of which he appeared to be unconscious. He shook his head.

  “A bad business! A bad business!”

  “How long’s she been dead?”

  “Can’t say exactly. Probably just after we got upstairs—judging by the clothes.”

  “Any deductions from the wound?”

  “Can’t tell—as she lies now.”

  Franklin glanced round. “I think we’d better lock up the room till the police get here.” The other nodded and moved out. At the door Franklin stopped. “No use worrying about the knob now. The maid’s already smudged it. Perhaps Travers might let Palmer come on duty outside as a precaution.”

  He handed the key over to Braishe. Travers was already on his way downstairs.

  “What’s happened to the other men?” Franklin asked.

  “They’ll be here in a minute,” Braishe told him. “They were sleeping like logs, the pair of ’em—and they say their mouths taste like nothing on earth.”

  “Did you hear your dog yap about half-past two?” Franklin asked Paradine.

  He thought for a moment. “I seem to have a faint idea, now you come to speak of it—but I don’t remember Mrs. Paradine moving. Usually she pats him or something. He sleeps at the foot of the bed,” he explained.

  “Well, I don’t want to talk rot,” said Franklin, “but I can’t help thinking that final drink we had was doped. Travers and I only sipped ours, and we slept normally. Who else didn’t have it? Oh, Mrs. Fewne. She can be asked later.”

  He watched while Travers gave Palmer his instructions about the door, then, “Mr. Paradine, you might ask your wife and Mrs. Fewne how they slept, will you? And perhaps Mrs. Paradine would break the news to Mrs. Fewne. We’ll go down now. Join us as soon as you can.”

  Little Crashaw was waiting in the hall. “Something happened?”

  “Someone died . . . suddenly,” said Franklin. “I’m just off to phone. Ours is out of order. What’s the drive like?”

  “Well, it was pretty bad for me, as I told you, but you see my legs are shorter than yours. Tell you what I’d do if I were you: I’d go through the wood at the back of the house—it’s bound to be less thick there—then I’d keep under the hedges till I got to the road.”

  “That’s a good idea,” said Braishe.

  “You see I thought of trying that way myself as soon as I could get a can of hot water. And I know what’d help. Put on some puttees!”

  Franklin nodded. “Splendid! Only, if I were you, I’d stay here till I saw what happened to me.” He glanced at the window. “Look at that! Coming down in a white sheet!”

  In five minutes he had made his preparations, and the others followed him to the breakfast room, where the hedge sheltered the door from the northeast wind.

  “I’ll get back as soon as I can,” he told Braishe. “And I’ll do that other little job for you at the same time. Where do I find out about the snow plough? Great Levington?”

  “That’s right. And you’re sure you won’t wait till we search the house?”

  Franklin shook his head. “By the way, if I’m late I should be inclined to let Travers keep an eye on things, if I were you. He knows the ropes. He and Mr. Paradine won’t lead you far wrong. Oh, yes! Before I forget it.” He pulled out a folded paper. “If it’s any use to you I’ve just jotted down a few things you mustn’t do—if you don’t want to get into trouble with the police.” He handed it to Travers. “Well, ch
eerio, everybody! See you later!”

  From the north window they watched him disappear along the hedge and into the wild garden. It seemed to be something to do, something to relieve the tension. Even where the hedge sheltered from the blizzard, the going seemed very bad in places; what it would be like out in the open meadows would be hard to say. Travers expressed the general view when he remarked, “I wouldn’t mind betting he’ll be back again in five minutes. How far’s he got to go when he reaches the main road?”

  “Best part of another half mile before he gets to the vicarage. That’s the first house—but only on the bye road. Your car’ll be in a pretty bad way, Crashaw!”

  Crashaw smiled good-humouredly. “It will . . . rather. But weren’t one or two cars completely snowed up last year?”

  “One or two! The place was littered with ’em. Hallo! Here’s George!”

  As the other two turned away, Travers flashed a look at the note Franklin had handed him. What he read gave him a sudden start. He looked round quickly, then screwed the paper into a ball. Over at the fire, where he stooped and chafed his hands, he deposited the paper dexterously in the flames. Just then the last couple arrived, Challis’s pasty face looking perfectly ghastly; Wildernesse, rosy as ever, but nervous and very badly rattled.

  “I say, this is absolutely horrible!” Challis began, then caught sight of the stranger.

  “No use arguing about it,” snapped Braishe with that rather pompous voice of his. He introduced Crashaw and pointed vaguely to the fireside chairs. “Best thing to do is to talk things over properly. What do you say, Travers? You see the police’ll be here at any minute.”

  Travers nodded. “That’s the best thing to do . . . when we’re all here.”

  There was a sudden silence, then Braishe laughed feebly. “Good Lord, yes! We’ve forgotten Denis!”

  As he pushed the bell an unusual restraint fell on the room. “Excuse me,” came Crashaw’s voice timidly, “but—er—don’t you think I’m rather out of it? I mean I—”

  “Not at all!” said Travers sharply. “We want all the cool heads we can find, for this business. A schoolmaster’s the very chap!”

  Pollock came in: rotund, fleshy faced, head bald as a rook’s, and his hands shaking.

  “Mr. Fewne been called yet, Pollock?”

  “Not yet, sir. William’s just swept the path by the hedge. He said not to disturb him before ten, sir.”

  “I see. Well, give him my compliments and ask him to come over at once—in his dressing gown, if necessary.”

  Pollock flustered off. Braishe turned to Challis and Wildernesse. “Either of you two lose anything last night?”

  “Yes! I did.” Wildernesse answered at once. “About fifteen quid in notes—off the dressing table.”

  “Bad luck, old boy,” commiserated Challis. “He got about a tenner of mine, out of my trousers pocket.”

  “What about the women, George?”

  “We lost nothing at all. The dog’d probably scare him off. And Brenda says she’s lost nothing—and she left a couple of rings and a bracelet on the table.”

  “Hm! And how’s she bearing up?”

  “Pretty well—on the whole. You know what an icicle she is. Celia had a good cry.”

  Challis fidgeted nervously and moistened his lips. “She was a good old scout, was Mirabel.”

  “Do be quiet!” snapped Braishe, whose nerves seemed to be going to pieces. Then there was a patter of feet in the outside corridor. The door was flung open, and Pollock burst in, overcoat sprinkled with snow, his breath coming in short gasps.

  “The pagoda, sir!” He gasped again. “Mr. Fewne . . . dead, sir!”

  “Oh, my God!” came from Braishe.

  Travers went forward quickly.

  “George, you come with me! Perhaps you’d better come too, Martin. You fellows stop there! And for God’s sake, don’t let the women know!”

  The blinding snow had already covered the path by the hedge, although William had scarcely finished sweeping it. On the veranda they halted till Pollock came puffing along.

  “What about the door? Was it open when you got here?”

  “No, sir. Shut, sir.”

  The butler stood on the threshold, sheltered from the wind, rubbing his hands nervously while the others looked round from the doormat. Immediately to their right was the open fireplace; to their left, beneath the first window, a writing desk—opened—with typewriter well. By the opposite wall was a low, ancient-looking bed; on it, Fewne, lying face downward, legs upward so that the heels almost touched his back, and hands clutching his hair. To Travers he looked like an overgrown, sulky boy who had thrown himself down in a fit of temper.

  “Have a look at him!” he whispered to Paradine, then wondered why he had whispered. With an eye on the floor for footmarks he moved along to the writing desk, then sniffed.

  “Extraordinary smell of acetylene here!”

  Paradine turned from the bed. “Been dead some hours. Looks like heart failure.” He broke off. “What’s that you were saying about acetylene?” He sniffed. “The lamp was acetylene, wasn’t it, Pollock?”

  Pollock stepped gingerly onto the mat. “Beg your pardon, sir?”

  “The lamp there—above the bed. What happened when it went out?”

  “I think I can explain that,” said Braishe. “You turned the water off first, before you wanted to put it out; then, when it burned low, you blew it out and put it out of that special window there. There’s a ledge outside for it. Then you closed the shutter again. Any spare gas simply blew away.”

  “How long would it burn?”

  “Eight hours, sir,” said Pollock. “It gave a very bright light, sir. William used to attend to it during the evening while Mr. Fewne was at dinner.”

  “Hm!” He looked at Braishe. “You can go back to the house now, Pollock—and don’t say anything to a soul. Mr. Fewne’s had a heart attack—that’s all.”

  He pulled up the blinds, and the room took on a new aspect. The splashes of drab colour on the floor became the skeletons of toy balloons, each gashed and ripped and thrown about as if in a fit of furious temper!

  “Don’t move—either of you!” said Travers quickly. “Just in front of you, George, towards me. Isn’t that a pen?”

  Paradine picked it up. “The nib’s been trodden on.”

  “Bring it over here, will you? Don’t tread on those balloons! . . . Now, let’s have a look at it.”

  He took it to the window and peered at it. “Don’t think it’s been trodden on. . . . Shall I tell you what I do think? For some reason or other—heaven knows what!—he suddenly went stark mad at the sight of those balloons. They infuriated him. There’s the main string—look! tied to the end of the bed, and the knot’s tight as blazes. What he did was to cut and slash at them with this pen, using it like a dagger. Then he wrenched them off and threw them about the room. Here’s one he stamped on; look at the heel mark . . . slipper probably. Then he threw himself on the bed and lashed out with his heels like a boy in a fit of temper.”

  Paradine grunted—and said nothing.

  “Anything in the fireplace?” asked Braishe.

  The other two looked round. There didn’t seem anything except ashes. “We can have an examination of that afterwards to—” He broke off suddenly as he caught sight of Braishe.

  “I say, you must put that balloon back again!” he said sharply. “Nothing’s to be touched here.”

  “Sorry!” said Braishe and smiled foolishly. He dropped the orange-coloured skeleton on the floor by the bed. “But I thought it was merely suicide?”

  “That doesn’t matter a damn. There’ll have to be an inquest. And—er—don’t think I’m being awkward, but we’re rather crowded in here. Would you mind pushing off back? I’ll stand on the mat till George has finished. Sure you don’t mind?”

  “Mind!” He grunted. “I think I’d faint if I stopped here much longer.” He was certainly looking pretty ghastly himself, and Travers w
atched him from the veranda as he went slowly along through the blinding snow by the hedge.

  “How’d he get in that extraordinary position?” Paradine was asking as Travers re-entered the room.

  “Don’t know. There’s a lot of things in this room I don’t know much about.”

  Paradine gave him a queer look. “Why did you get rid of Martin?”

  “We didn’t want him here while you were telling me it wasn’t heart failure after all.”

  “Hm! And what leads you to that conclusion?”

  Travers smiled. “Look at that body! It’s a photographic pose. I’m no medical man, but I’d swear every muscle was instantaneously paralyzed. I admit that if the left foot weren’t touching the wall the whole body’d topple over. Still, that doesn’t affect the argument. Am I right or wrong?”

  The other looked away for a moment, then pursed his lips.

  “I’m not prepared to say ... at the moment. I will say it’s a case new to my experience.”

  “It’s not new to mine,” said Travers bluntly. “I took over some trenches one day and came across a chap almost like that—on his belly, writing a letter. Concussion had killed him—what I called photographically. You’d have sworn he was alive.” He shook his head. “Still, there’s no point in you and me having a dogfight, George. The thing is, what’d we better do? Give it out as heart and leave it at that . . . till the police get here?”

  The other frowned. “I think . . . perhaps . . . yes. You see, I’m in an awkward position. I daren’t touch the body . . . yet.”

  “I realize that.” He peered once more round the room. “Suppose that curtained-off space is the bathroom?” He moved over and verified it. “Cold tub every morning, by the look of it. By the way, I wonder where the manuscript of his new book is.”

  Paradine had already begun a search of the dead man’s pockets. It was on the writing desk, however, that he found the keys. Travers tried the drawers. In the second was what he was looking for—a neatly stacked pile of papers, typed in separately fastened chapters.

  “Hm! No title to it.”